


The Heat Wave

by vanillafluffy



Category: Adam-12
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-08
Updated: 2012-04-08
Packaged: 2017-11-03 06:25:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/378301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillafluffy/pseuds/vanillafluffy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A while back, I mentioned to a friend that I'd started watching an old favorite series, Adam-12. She asked me if it was as slashy as she remembered it. I considered her question for a while, and had to say yes and no. Most people would ship Malloy with Reed, but to me, that kind of chemistry between Malloy and MacDonald was clear. I think they've got something going on the down low, and this is how it got started. This is not meant to reflect the behavior of real police officers or any of the actors involved!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Heat Wave

July 25th, 1971

Los Angeles is caught in a heat wave that seems determined to stew the city in its own juices. Citizens are surly, more inclined to quarrel with others. Law enforcement is stretched thin, thin enough to offer overtime to its officers. That's how Pete Malloy ends up with "Mack" MacDonald riding in the seat usually occupied by Jim Reed. 

The first couple hours of their tour are typical enough. Noise complaints, an alledged Peeping Tom—If there really was one, he's gone by the time they get there—a minor fender-bender...they make small-talk between calls: Reed's vacation at Lake Tahoe with his family, the Dodgers game Malloy went to last weekend, Mack's upcoming 20th anniversary.

Then Dispatch sends them to Griffith Park, reporting an abandoned Buick, possibly stolen, parked on an access road. 

"Great place to dump it," Malloy comments. "If they left the keys inside, it could be gone by the time we get there." 

When they arrive at the park, the Buick is still there. Malloy parks a short distance away, while Mack calls in the plate. It's registered to a Michael Carpenter, has not been reported stolen, has no wants or warrants.

They approach the car, and are within a couple yards before they realize that it isn't abandoned after all. It's a two-door coupe, and the front seat has been reclined. Inside are two men, so busy with each other that they're unaware of the cops' approach. The windows are down to catch the early evening breeze, and little wet sounds drift out. Mack's mouth hangs open like a big-mouth bass when he sees what's going on. 

Malloy's caught plenty of frisky teenagers in the act, but both these guys are over 21. The guy on top has silvering hair, and his head bobs up and down over the other man's crotch. The bottom has curly hair, and his eyes are closed. He's moaning with pleasure, and Malloy takes pity on him. He waits until the moans have become gasps, then trailed off into sighs, Only then does he give an authoritative rap on the roof with his nightstick.

The couple flails. Somebody kicks the horn. Curly tucks himself back into his pants, and he and the other man both look worried, as well they should. Most cops would be reading them their rights by now, maybe with some unnecessary force, but Malloy figures there's no real harm done. 

"Can I see some ID?" he asks, and confirms that Carpenter is the silver-haired man and Curly is David Wright. They're 44 and 28 years old respectively. 

Carpenter is wearing a wedding ring. Which isn't really relevant, but it makes Malloy wonder privately whether his own happily-married partner would ever experiment in that direction. Reed is so clean-cut, such a Boy Scout, he wouldn't dare bring it up, because they work well together, and he doesn't want to jeopardize that. 

"Somebody called your vehicle in as an abandoned car. I'm not going to take you in, but you'd better move along. Next time, get a room."

Back in the patrol car, Malloy watches as the Buick glides away. "You could've had them on at least three different charges that I can think of," Mack says, his tone noncommittal. 

Malloy shrugs. "Ever patrol a lover's lane on Friday or Saturday night? How often do we actually arrest someone unless they get belligerent? Same principle."

"Those guys weren't exactly teenagers," Mack points out. "They should know better."

It's interesting that Mack isn't saying that the lover's lane couples are, without exception, a boy and a girl. He isn't talking about unnatural acts, or looking disgusted. Instead, he's more focused on Malloy's justification for letting them go.

"I can't believe you actually waited for them to finish."

"Do unto others."

Mack shakes his head. "Unbelievable." But he doesn't mean it the way Malloy first thinks, because he continues, "I couldn't get Betty Ann to do that for me if I gave her a mink coat. What about you, Pete? You're single and on the prowl. You have a lot of ladies willing to polish your nightstick?"

"Now and then. I have a theory—most women aren't that into it because they can't relate. They don't have the anatomy for it."

Mack sighs. Poor bastard, Malloy thinks with a suppressed grin. He doesn't know what he's missing.

"Those two--" Mack stops, his forehead creased. "I know that kind of thing goes on, but I never—" He shakes his head. "I don't know what to think."

"They're not kids, and it's not hurting anybody, Mack. Although they're running the risk of being arrested, or worse, if somebody who's not a tolerant cop comes along." 

Malloy wants to add that he knows a place downtown, they call it a "glory hole", where you can get an anonymous blow job, free—but that's liable to lead to questions he'd rather not answer. The fact is, he's indifferent to the gender of his sexual partners. He has a slight preference for women, but when you get right down to it, a hot mouth is a hot mouth and both sexes have them.

Mack is sweating, which isn't surprising, given temps in the high 90s. Malloy looks closer. The other man's blue serge trousers are straining at the crotch. Clearly, the scene in the Buick has excited him, and he's conflicted about that. 

He reaches for the mike. "One Adam twelve, clear. Requesting Code Seven." They're due for a break.

"One Adam twelve, clear," Dispatch responds. "Confirm Code Seven."

He hangs up the mike—-after making sure it isn't transmitting. 

"So, do you want to go get dinner?" Malloy suggests in a neutral voice, "or would you rather find out what all the fuss is about?" 

A moment passes before Mack says, "I'm not that hungry."

Malloy bets the farm. He takes Mack's hand and presses it against his own tented inseam. Mack doesn't move when Malloy lets go and reaches out to explore Mack's crotch. He curls his fingers to stroke the rigid flesh beneath the fabric. They're far enough off the main paths that they should go unnoticed, especially since it's dusk now, and night is fast approaching.

"Good call," Malloy says, with no more emphasis than if Mack had requested dinner at In-and-Out Burger. He unzips his partner's fly, and carefully frees his dick. 

Up close, Mack smells of sweat and English Leather aftershave, with a musky scent of his own that reminds Malloy of other such encounters. At first, he teases the head with his lips and the tip of his tongue. Mack is breathing heavily, but that's nothing to his intake of breath when Malloy stops fooling around and sinks the stiff cock down to his tonsils. 

He doesn't copy the rapid way Carpenter gave head, instead, he takes his time, up the shaft at half-inch increments, down even more slowly, and up again at a snail's pace. His tongue lashes against the sensitive underside, and is rewarded with a groan.

Even the way he's doing it, it doesn't take long for Mack to get his rocks off. Malloy's careful not to make a mess; spending the rest of their tour with jizz stains on their uniforms would be hard to explain.

"Do you want me to...?" Mack's offer is half-hearted, but Malloy's not ready to stop without some relief of his own. There's a clump of paper napkins in the glove compartment, and he grabs a fistful. "Give me your hand," he says, and guides it to his own hard-on. After a moment, he's able to let go, and relish the helping hand he's getting.

He's never gotten it on in a black-and-white before, just fantasized about it. It's even more of a turn-on in real life than it was in his imagination. 

The napkins capture the evidence, and soon they're underway again. The moving air coming through the open windows feels good. 

"Want to roll through a drive-in and grab something?" Malloy suggests. "We've still got a few minutes for Seven."

"Sounds good. I seem to have worked up an appetite."

The End of the Beginning.

 

***  



End file.
